"When we went in, Mother's face was just as it always was, and we got Cousin Parnelia a cup of tea and gave her part of a boiled ham to take home and a dozen eggs and a loaf of graham bread, just as though nothing had happened." She stopped speaking. There was no sound at all but the delicate, forlorn whisper of the leaves. "That is a very fine story!" said Page finally. He spoke with a measured, emphatic, almost solemn accent. "Yes, it's a very fine story," murmured Sylvia a little wistfully. "It's finer as a story than it was as real life. It was years before I could look at blue corduroy without feeling stirred up. I really cared more about my clothes than I did about that stupid, ignorant old woman. If it's only a cheerful giver the Lord loves, He didn't feel much affection for me." They began to retrace their steps. "You gave up the blue corduroy," he commented as they walked on, "and you didn't scold your silly old kinswoman." "That's only because Mother hypnotized me. _She_ has character. I did it as Louis signed the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, because Madame de Maintenon thought he ought to." "But she couldn't hypnotize your brother Lawrence, althought he was so much younger. He didn't give up his thirty-seven cents. I think you're bragging without cause if you claim any engaging and picturesque absence of character." "Oh, Lawrence--he's different! He's extraordinary! Sometimes I think he is a genius. And it's Judith who hypnotizes him. _She_ supplies his character." They emerged into an opening and walked in silence for some moments towards the Grand Trianon. "You're lucky, very lucky," commented Page, "to have such an ample supply of character in the family. I'm an only child. There's nobody to give me the necessary hypodermic supply of it at the crucial moments." He went on, turning his head to look at the Great Trianon, very mellow in the sunshine. "It's my belief, however, that at the crucial moments you have plenty of it of your own." "That's a safe guess!" said Sylvia ironically, "since there never have _been_ any crucial moments in a life so uninterestingly eventless as mine. I wonder what I _would_ do," she mused. "My own conviction is that--suppose I'd lived in the days of the Reformation--in the days of Christ--in the early Abolition days--" She had an instant certainty: "Oh, I have been entirely on the side of whatever was smooth, and elegant, and had amenity--I'd have hated the righteous side!" Page did not look very deeply moved by this revelation of depravity. Indeed, he smiled rather amusedly at her, and changed the subject. "You said a moment ago that I couldn't understand, because I'd always had money. Isn't it a bit paradoxical to say that the people who haven't a thing are the only ones who know anything about it?" "But you couldn't realize what _losing_ the money meant to us. You can't know what the absence of money can do to a life."